My dear grandmother,
The first iris flower of my life. I love so many things about you. For example your name. The name of the flowering irises, which is smoking in a hurry as if to say "I have food on the stove, let me go". His smile that cools us down like the water we pour from his closet. Then, for example, I learn with you how people smile at life's sufferings. I learn mostly from those freckles that settled on his impatient face like the blooming time of hundreds of buds. Those freckles were the blessing of your hands with rose henna. They grew green with the tears you shed. They grew up with the pain of milk accumulating in their breasts. Maybe they faded a little with the tiredness of the guests you hosted. But when you are silent, I will be sad, they spoke the most. "Thank you for that too, girl".
Then, I love your hands so much, grandma. Your hands that shed the light of your eyes more than the lifeblood of the flowers we planted. If possible, his hands that always meet above his heart, as if a different joy of life would burst forth from every particle of it. Also, as if he went to the rose prayer
always wearing the same pink nightgown. And in the pitch dark, in front of the window, on the side of your hands
waiting for the happiness of your home. But mostly still stubbornly like two childhood dreams
I love those smiling teeth clinging to the root, grandma.
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